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“Look how we can, or sad, or merrily,
Interpretation will misquote our looks.”

“O, how full of briars is this working-day world.”

Spiffard's first thoughts on awaking, were occupied by
the events of the past night, and the recollection of the situation
in which he left Mr. Cooke. The storm was over. Clear,
bright and cold was the morning. He was soon equipped for
a walk through the untrodden snow, and proceeded without
delay to Mrs. Johnson's. Before he entered that lady's door,
he very unexpectedly encountered a friend, with whom he had
had no communication for some weeks.

Mr. Littlejohn's attention had been occupied, as a merchant,
by the difficulties of “the times,” and, as a father, by the joyful
recovery of his son and his re-establishment under his roof.
Restored to perfect health, he now resided at home, and

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occupied himself in those studies which belonged to his clerical
profession, and accorded with his serious character. For the
present he withheld himself from the duties of public instruction,
as he knew that the nature of his late malady might, in
the public mind, injure or weaken the effect of his exertions,
until time should cast his veil over the past. The presence of
the son in bodily and mental health was (more than his mercantile
prosperity), a subject of congratulation to the father.

Among the eccentricities of the elder Littlejohn was a habit
of early rising and strenuous pedestrian exercises before
breakfast, at all seasons of the year and in all weathers. In
summer he enjoyed the hour before the sun had overpowered
the freshness of the morning air, but with his rays had called
forth the notes of a thousand birds in the shades of Greenwich,
and gilded the broad expanse of waters where the two rivers
meet in our beautiful bay. In winter, he did not wait for the
lazy luminary, but as soon as his approach afforded sufficient
light, the old man, already long prepared, issued to the cold
and nipping air, and by a rapid walk prepared himself for an
early American breakfast of coffee and buckwheat-cakes.

On this clear and cold morning, Mr. Littlejohn was as usual
out for a walk of three or four miles, and making the first
tracks in the snow that had fallen during the night. Not far
from the door of Mrs. Johnson's humble dwelling, he was surprised
to see his young friend Spiffard approaching Broadway;
surprised, because he knew that players are obliged to sit up late,
especially those of the sock, and after returning late from the
theatre, being fatigued and exhausted, usually take late suppers;
and he knew, that although a water-drinker would not
be so likely to over-eat or over-sleep himself as a wine-bibber,
yet “late to bed makes late to rise.” He turned to meet him.

“How's this, my young friend? I never greeted you in my
morning rambles before. Have you become an early riser?”

“Not usually so early as to-day, sir.”

“I must reproach you for neglecting me. It is long since
you called upon me. My son is now at home with me.”

“And well, sir?”

“Perfectly restored. Come and see him. He will be
pleased, now, to be acquainted with you. Your professions
are supposed not to assimilate, but I think your minds
would.”

“Society has raised a bar between the preacher and the
player; perhaps it would have been better had it never existed;
but as it is, I would not advise your son or any other

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clergyman to step over it. When players, by their conduct,
remove the bar, then let the intercourse commence.”

“That, you have done; therefore be it as you say. Come,
shall we take our walk together?”

“I am on an errand of business, sir; and business in which
I think you will be interested and become a partner.”

“Indeed! I should not have thought that a young actor
and an old merchant would have entered into a business partnership
upon so short an acquaintance.”

“I know, sir, that there is one feeling that is common to us—
a feeling that young and old ought equally to partake of—
the feeling of love to our neighbour, which generates pity
for his weakness, and the desire to strengthen and relieve
him. It is a business of this nature to which I invite your partnership.”

“I believe we understand each other pretty well, young
man; but, before I agree to open a partnership account with
you, I must know something more particular than the mere
nature of the speculation. Communicate.”

“I will, sir. If you will turn about with me, I will show you
the contrast of sickness by surfeit, and sickness from want.”
The merchant took Spiffard's arm, who retraced his steps,
(for he had advanced towards Broadway to meet the old gentleman),
and they proceeded to the place where he had left Cooke.

“Here, sir, we shall find the unfortunate man who attracted
your attention by his excesses at Cato's, and by his urbanity at
Doctor Cadwallader's.”

“Here!”

“In this abode of sickness and poverty.”

“Brought here by his benevolent wish to relieve it?”

“Brought here by others while in a state of insensibility; a
wretched outcast, perishing on the pavement in the storm of
last night. This place, the residence of a poor woman, sick,
and, I fear, dying, was the nearest place found open to receive
him.”

“But how—why—”

“You shall learn the whole. Let us enter the house. He
was saved by what is called accident; or the idol of the public
would have been found frozen to death in the streets of New-York,
surrounded by the well-warmed mansions of his idolaters.”

This meeting of the young actor and the old merchant happened,
by what we call chance, at the moment that Henry
Johnson was persuading the constable to carry a note to the

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landlord, requesting a suspension of the law's dread mandate;
and the creditor's unchristian cruelty.

“She shall not die in a hospital!” cried Cooke, throwing
off a handkerchief with which he had covered his face, and
glaring at the young man like a tiger. “I will pay every debt
she owes. The shelter of her house has preserved my life—
not that it is worth much! No matter! I owe my life to her
and to you. I'll pay my debt by paying her debts! And, by
God! she shall not die in a hospital!”

“I neither drink nor swear, sir. The being on whose will
my mother relies, may relieve her present distress. From you
she shall receive neither favour nor relief!”

“Do you know who I am, sir?”

“Too well!”

“Who shall prevent my paying her landlord, and saving her
from the distress he threatens? Who?”

“Her son! Her son will not suffer her to be —”

What the excited youth might have said was lost. A second
and louder knocking at the door, (the first was unheard, except
by the little black girl, owing to the high-raised voices of the
father and son; the louder knocking) cut short the angry dialogue;
and the girl opened the door, and Mr. Littlejohn, followed
by Spiffard, entered the apartment.

It may be supposed that Henry Johnson had not had either
opportunity or inclination, during the rapid succession of events
so distressing to him and his mother, to change his watchman's
dress for that suited to the counting-house; and he now stood
in the presence of, and fronting, Mr. Littlejohn, in the rough
costume of a guardian of the night, except that the leathern
helmet had been removed. Their eyes met, and both started.

“What is the meaning of this, sir?” said the merchant.

Henry was silent.

“This watchman came hither with Mr. Cooke,” said Spiffard.

“Watchman, indeed! Both, I suppose, from the same scene
of masquerading riot.”

“He is the watchman that —”

“He is a clerk in my counting-house.”

Spiffard was silent; Littlejohn proceeded—

“So, Mr. Johnson, my unwelcome suspicions are confirmed.
You have been masquerading with this man of noted intemperance.
Your unseemly situation in the counting-house is fully
explained. My good opinion of you has been on the wane for
some time, and this discovery seems likely to prove a

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

deathblow to your character: the blow that must sever us; and that,
too, when your period of probation is nearly past; when, in a
very short time, you would have been entitled to claim a salary.”

The undenied assertion, that the pretended watchman was a
clerk to the merchant, kept Spiffard silent. Cooke paid no
attention to what was passing.

Although Henry Johnson had been long known to Emma
Portland, he was not known to Spiffard, who, it will be recollected,
had been but a short time an inmate of the family of
Mrs. Epsom; and during that time occupied by perturbed
thoughts, and associating with men unknown to Henry Johnson.
In the character of a watchman, for such he had acted, as
well as appeared, during the events of the night, (and even
now,) he did not recognise a youth who had only been seen
and not noticed. He stood a perplexed and silent beholder of
a scene, to him as extraordinary as those he had witnessed relative
to Cooke. That he was one of the watchmen who had
assisted in bringing the tragedian to this house, he knew—and
nothing more.

Henry stood with his eyes fixed on Littlejohn, but unabashed.
His colour changed frequently, coming and going with
the changing emotions which seemed almost to suffocate him.
Mr. Littlejohn continued:

“Twice—nay, thrice, have I found you asleep over your
desk. You gave me no excuse—no explanation; I now see
that there was none to give. I laboured to find excuses for
you. Your confusion, and the appearance of your face, suggested
a thought that I dismissed, but now see might have been
entertained; for the night reveller will seek support from that
which has disqualified him for the labours of the day.”

“Sir!” the youth exclaimed, indignantly, but checked himself,
and again became silent. His face was flushed—its muscles
quivered, but his eye quailed not. It was fixed on that of
his accuser. The merchant proceeded:

“Yes, sir! What other inference could I draw from your
appearance and conduct? What else could I think? Either
that you was under the influence of stupifying poison, or that
you had been watching the preceding night; passing the hours
of natural rest without necessary sleep.”

“It is true, sir. You had surmised the truth. I had been
watching. I had been sleepless.”

“Is this a garb for a clerk in the counting-house of Littlejohn
and Company?” The merchant paused. For a moment,
Henry made no reply; then calmly said: “It is true, sir,
that you have surmised the cause of my sleeping at my desk;

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but it was after labouring faithfully for hours, and fulfilling my
assigned task. It is true, as you supposed, that the cause was
sleepless nights; and for the sake of the cause of my sleepless
nights, I will now show you the cause. See it here, sir!”

He stepped to his mother's curtains, and, for a moment,
threw them open. He closed them; and again resumed a
firm, but respectful attitude.

“There lies the cause. A sick, and, I fear, a dying mother.
As for this dress, which draws upon me the titles of masquerader
and reveller; this dress, unfit as you deem it, for the
associate of a counting-house, has fitted me to associate with
brave and manly companions, in an honest and honourable
vocation. This dress fitted me for the duties of the sleepless
nights which enabled me to procure necessaries for one who
had laboured through life to give me an education and place
in society that might guard me from vice or crime. Those
sleepless nights which caused my strength to fail after the duties
of the day, and dulled my senses, and suffused my eyes
with blood, were endured cheerfully for a sick mother—and
such a mother! A reveller and a drunkard! If I might feel
pride for having done a duty, I should be more proud of this
dress, than of that which fits me for your counting-house!”

“My son! my son! forbear!” said the afflicted mother.

There was silence after these words, and it continued
for what appeared to be a minute; only that Cooke, on
hearing the exclamation of Mrs. Johnson, whispered to Spiffard,
“What's that? Who spoke?” and all was again silent.

Littlejohn was much affected. His agitation seemed to
prevent speaking; but with an effort, he at length exclaimed:

“Young man! young man! you have humbled me! How
little do we know of what is beneath the surface! What? have
I so mistaken you, and the causes of your actions? Have I
done you, by thought and word, such base injustice? For your
mother—for your sick, widowed mother, you have watched
night after night, to earn a pittance which our niggardly economy
denied, though justly due to your daily toil at the desk!”

“Now, sir,” said Henry, (his eyes filling with tears;) “Now
you do yourself injustice. You gave me an opportunity of
acquiring that knowledge which would entitle me to wages
sufficient for my mother's support.”

Littlejohn appeared not to hear him. “I, who have flattered
myself that I was an honest and a just man; a man of some
observation and penetration into character—I have accused
you of revelry, dissipation, and even odious ebriety—because

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overwearied nature sunk under the weight filial piety had laid
upon it.”

Cooke repeatedly had inquired wildly, “Whose voice was
that?” and Spiffard was employed in persuading him to return
to the house from which he had wandered in the storm; but
his only reply was, “never! never!” Then again his confused
thoughts reverting to Mrs. Johnson's voice, he would ask,
“Who spoke? what voice was that?”

When Littlejohn ceased speaking, he appeared deeply affected.
Henry was silent. The silence caused Cooke to look
around him, and seeing the constable sitting opposite to him,
by the fire, very much at his ease, and totally inattentive to
what was passing, he cried out in his harshest and most discordant
tone of voice, “Get up, sir!”

The officer remembering that he had pocketed the bank-bill,
and not willing to provoke inquiry, obeyed with wondrous
alacrity, without speaking.

“Go about your blood-sucking business, elsewhere, you
harpy. I command you! Avoid the house! Avaunt! I—
George Frederick Cooke, command you! I pay the rent!”

“Never!” said Henry.

“What, Mr. Hipps,” said Littlejohn; “are you here to dis
train for rent?”

“Yes, sir,” respectfully answered the officer.

“How much is due?”

“Fifty dollars, sir, for two quarters.”

“I will be answerable.”

“I cannot repay you, sir,” said Henry.

“I pay the rent!” shouted Cooke. He was unattended to.

“You shall repay me out of your salary.”

“My salary?”

“The highest the firm gives is a thousand dollars. That is
yours, commencing from last August. It was in August I first
saw you sleeping at the desk. It was then I first did you injustice.
A half year's wages are due. Take care that your
mother has the best medical advice. I need not give you a
charge as to any thing else; but, by all means, call in Doctor
McLean. I shall deduct the fifty dollars from the half-year's
salary, and send you a check for the balance, for you must not
come to the counting-house to-day. Good by! You forgive
me! But no more masquerades,” said the benevolent merchant,
smiling through tears, “and no more sleeping at the
desk. Mr. Spiffard—you and I and Henry and my son, must
meet soon over a dish of tea, or a sparkling glass of water.”

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And taking Henry's hand, he pressed it, repeating, “forgive
me;” then pointing to his mother, said, “go to her;” and he
ran, rather than walked out of the house, without noticing the
person he came into it to see.

The tide of which the poet speaks had now commenced its
flood—the flood that leads to fortune. Henry Johnson was
ready to embark upon the favouring current. Had he not
himself caused the propitious flood? Does not every man create
the flood of his own fortune?

Henry approached the bed, took his mother's hand, and sat
down by her, enshrouding both by the curtain. Mr. Hipps,
the constable, slunk unperceived away. Spiffard very soon
engaged a sleigh that happened to be passing, and fortunately
a covered sleigh; for without hat or overcoat, Cooke, (who
had consented to go to Jemmy Bryden's), would have made a
pitiable appearance by daylight in the streets. Spiffard interrupted
the conversation of the mother and son.

“Mr. Johnson, I have seen and heard enough to make me
wish to know more of you. I have seen you before, without
knowing you; and, in the confusion of the last night, had no
recollection of ever having met you.”

“We shall meet again, Mr. Spiffard. Your character is
well known to me, and I sincerely respect you.”

“At present, this gentleman must be attended to.”

“The sooner he is removed from this place—”

“The better. I think so.”

Cooke appeared unable to comprehend what had taken place
in regard to the rent, and insisted upon paying it. With difficulty
Spiffard quieted him, and removed him from a place to
which he had been brought by means so strange, and for
purposes hidden from all but the benevolent cause and source
of all good.

Henry had sunk again on the bed-side, and drawn the curtain
about him.

“My dear mother,” said he, “we are unknown to him; we
must remain unknown.”

“He wished to assist—to relieve us, Henry.”

“Heaven forgive him for—for—”

“I forgive him, Henry.”

“I cannot—yet. I will watch over him, and, if possible,
save him from the effects of his—. I would do anything to
serve him, but I cannot forgive him—not yet.”

p089-358

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